The Sparrow & The Swann
by Pirate Gibberish
Summary: Jack is dead. Or so everyone thinks. A veritable soap opera of love, hate, and pirates.
1. How Things Came About

**This is the beginning of an epic.**

-huggles-

Glad yer reading, love.

I don't own anything. Disney owns everything. **_For now._**

I decided to post the very beginning; it's roughly all I have at this point. But I really wanted know if people liked it or not, and whether it was worth continuing.

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Jack Sparrow splashed through the warm, shallow water on his hands and knees, spitting out a mouthful of salty sea and throwing himself at long last onto solid ground. He lay on his back in the cool sand, his chest heaving. The sky was blood-red at sunset; he stared at it hard, feeling as if he were still in the ocean. He felt the phantom waves crashing over him, one after the other, as he lost himself in thought. 

That wench. That bloody _wench_. She had killed him! Ok, to be fair, he wasn't dead. But she didn't know that! He couldn't believe it, he couldn't _believe_ what she'd done. No, that wasn't true. He didn't _want _to believe what she'd done. The fact was, he could believe it. She was a pirate. Elizabeth Swann was a bloody _pirate_. She had killed him to save herself. And her precious _William_. He scowled at the thought. He had watched her transform from a delicate, good-for-nothing-but-a-shag, doll of a girl into a wild and beautiful pirate. And bugger all, he loved her.

He loved her like nothing before. He'd wanted her from the day he'd rescued her in Port Royal. But then, his desire was nothing more than animal lust. Now he wanted nothing more than to protect her, to make her happy. And yes, he still wanted to shag her.  
And he hated himself for it; he was Captain Jack Sparrow, after all. Wicked, ruthless pirate. Man-of-a-thousand-wenches. And here he was, completely taken with the Governor's daughter. The prim-girl-turned-rogue. He wanted her like all hell. But she loved Will, was engaged to Will, a man who, despite much, he considered a friend.

Jack struggled to his feet as the last rays of sun disappeared beneath the horizon. First order of business: he moved his hands across his belt, making sure his effects survived his long swim to shore. They had, though his hat was gone; he was quite sore about that. Wait. He plunged his hand into his pocket once more to confirm it: his compass was gone. Bloody hell, she had taken his _compass_. Pirate. She was a pirate. Jack felt a wave of emotion crash over him; he knew that compass would secure her safety from the British government. Relief. And he knew that he'd been right. Smugness. Not only had Elizabeth sacrificed him for her own needs, she'd stolen his compass. She _had_ been curious; she _had_ wanted to know what it felt like. Well, he hoped the wench was happy. The beautiful, ferocious wench. He knew that if anyone else had stolen his compass, his _bloody_ compass, he would be furious. _Beyond_ furious. But it was Elizabeth, and it was the key to her protection from the death sentence.

He was bruised, cut, and very sober, something that caused him great unhappiness. Killing the beastie had been easy, by his standards. It was the swim to shore that had nearly done him in. Miles upon miles of open ocean, with nothing to float upon. He'd been hopping from island to island for so long, desperately searching for _any_ civilization. Unfortunately, every land-mass he'd come upon had been hopelessly small, worthless spits of land. Well, worthless wasn't quite fair. They had allowed him a place to rest, to catch his breath and lay on solid ground. But there was little else, and so he would force himself onwards, force himself to dive back into the warmth of the caribbean water and swim. Swim ahead. He had swallowed more sea-water than he ever cared to and felt like salt had seeped into his every pore. It had certainly seeped into his clothing. He was soaked; there wasn't a single part of his body that wasn't wet. The thick black kohl surrounding his eyes was smudged and running terribly. He took a few faltering steps, looking around hopefully. This island was much bigger than any he'd encountered so far. _Much_ bigger. Maybe there were people. Maybe, just maybe, there was _rum._ He could practically feel the rough, spiced liquid sliding down his throat. He groaned slightly as he began stumbling through the shallow water down the long stretch of beach, praying that he would find _something_.

Elizabeth Swann was miserable. She was slumped on a crudely constructed chair in the equally crude multi-tiered river house belonging to one Tia Dalma. She mindlessly wrapped her hands around the mug of something-or-other that Tia was offering her, lost in her horrible thoughts.

What the bloody hell had she done? She had killed him, that's what. She _killed_ him. Jack Sparrow was gone, and it was her fault. It had been three days since she'd kissed him. No, since she'd _tricked_ him. Three days since she'd cuffed him to the Pearl, selfishly sentencing him to death. Death by terrible, foul sea-monster. Death by Kraken. She shivered involuntarily. What _had_ she done? She'd become a pirate. She had killed the man she...oh, bugger, the man she _loved_. She had killed him out of fear. Fear of death, yes, but mostly fear of her love. The fact that she had feelings for him terrified her. She had spent too long forcing herself to believe that she did not love him, that she loved Will. William Turner, the man she was engaged to marry. But it was useless. Sure, she'd felt it coming for a while; each kiss from Will exciting her less, each vow seeming less important. But her conscience didn't want to admit it. Whatever morals had been burned into her skull protested her every thought of Jack, told her that she had already given her love to Will, the man who returned it eagerly. It was her conscience, her morals that had made her do it. But they were obviously quite confused themselves, for now they were tearing her apart more than ever before. She had thought -wished, really, like all hell- that killing Jack would kill her love, would kill her guilt. Unfortunately, it only seemed to have intensified it. She felt empty with her Captain gone; there was a hole inside her, filled with a deep, throbbing pain. She wanted to die. She wanted to curl up and _die_. Not only did she hate herself for not loving Will, she hated herself for killing the man she _did_ love.

She groaned, catching Will's eye quickly. He glared at her, his stare hard and tinged with sadness. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The entire crew was looking quite dejectedly into their mugs of the mysterious liquid. Everyone was feeling guilty, but none so much as Elizabeth Swann. She drank hesitatingly from her cup, letting the warm, spicy liquid slide down her throat. Hot rum? It was strange, yes, but so was her life. It caused her eyes to burn and tear; she set it down immediately and stood, shaking slightly. She looked quickly around the room, her eyes flying across the many depressed, confused pirates slumped around their drinks. She had to get out. She grabbed her tankard as an afterthought; maybe it would taste better outside.

She breathed in the salty air gratefully, letting the cooless fill her lungs and dry the tears welling in her eyes. And they were not from the strong drink this time, but from her pure desperation. She stood on the beach, letting the moonlight wash over her, and took a deep, gulping breath. A sob. She felt her knees give out, her body falling to the sand in a crumpled heap. She was crying so hard her body was shaking. Damn that Jack Sparrow. She _loved_ him.

And he was gone.  
She let her hand slip to her pocket, feeling the outline of the compass, the only thing she had left of him. Then she heard it. Someone was splashing through the water. She lifted her head, peering into the darkness. But she couldn't see a thing. Wait. She could make something out: a figure sloshing unsteadily through the most shallow parts. Quite unsteadily. There was something familiar about the way he was staggering...but no. No. That was impossible. He was gone, and she was imagining things.

But he did seem like he could use some help; he looked discouraged, exhausted, and quite tipsy. Perhaps he'd been thrown out by a lover? His heart broken, left to struggle along the deserted beach? Or maybe he was just drunk. Either way...

"Are you alright?" she called into the murky darkness, wiping absentmindedly at the salty tears that were quickly drying on her cheeks. She wasn't about to just go charging down the beach towards a suspiciously unsteady man; he was far enough from the house so that her screams would be unheard, should he choose to attack her for any reason. She'd witnessed her fair share of drunken men to know that they could be quite unpredictable.

Bloody fantastic. Now he was hearing voices. And not just any. _Hers_. Appearantly too much ocean could addle your brain. He felt shivers shoot down his spine; his entire body was tingling. He shook himself wildly, attempting to rid his dark, sun-damaged skin of the goosbumps spreading across it, despite the fair weather. Then he lost his balance completely. He felt himself instantly surrounded in a cocoon of warm water; his face full of wet sand. He groaned, producing several bubbles that drifted lazily to the surface and burst silently. He was wet. He was without his hat. He was devastatingly sober, and now he had a face full of sand and sea. An odd sucking sound resonated across the beach as he pulled his head from he muck and, caught up in his frustration, answered the voice in his head. Loudly.

"I'm bloody _fine_," he spat, flipping onto his back with another large splash, squeezing his eyes shut.

Elizabeth watched the figure's movements become more erratic until he was flailing about like an absolute madman. Then the inevitable happened: he completely lost his balance and fell, with a slow, surprising grace, to the water. The very _shallow_ water. Surely he had planted himself in the solid, wet sand. The disgusting squelch that rang through the darkness confirmed her suspicion. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing on the beach, he was _definitely_ unhappy now. Then she heard him speak.

That voice. That _voice_.

Jack.

Sand flew in every direction as she struggled to her feet, the rum in her mug sloshing everywhere; she tore down the beach, her bare feet kicking up fountains of the soft, near-white powder behind her. She felt as if she were in a dream. There he was. Jack Sparrow. _Captain Jack Sparrow._ She fell to her knees beside him, placing a delicate-yet-grimy hand on his rapidly rising and falling chest.

He was soaked. It was unreal. He was dead. She'd killed him. It was a dream.

No, this was real. This was bloody real. But it was still so dream-like. She kept her hand on his chest, just to reassure herself that it was him, that he wasn't at the bottom of the ocean, or sliced to pieces by thousands of sharper-than-swords teeth. She tried to speak but found she couldn't; hot tears were welling in her eyes, the back of her throat beginning to burn.

"Jack," she choked out. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't speak. Her breath was caught in her chest.

Then his eyes shot open.


	2. The Magic Of Rum

**This is the beginning of an epic; second part.**

It was going to be a longer chapter, but I got tired.

I still don't own anything.

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Hell. He was hallucinating. But, no! His head was quite solidly on her knee. On. Elizabeth's. _Knee_. His eyes roved about wildly, trying to take in everything at once, which was quite imposible. He drank her in as if she were a pool of water in the desert; his eyes couldn't see enough of her at once. Oh god! His breathing was quick and shallow, not from his long treck across the beach or his fall, but from _her._ His heart was racing at an incredible rate, threatening to tear through his chest. And he hated her for it. He hated that she could make him feel like that. Hated that he was so bloody thrilled just to see her, just to be near her again. And he _loved_ her for it.

She was right there. Righty bloody there. That wench. She was safe! She was _right there._

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to bloody tell her. But he coudn't speak. His mind felt like it was exploding; he was talking in circles to _himself_, babbling in his mind. Every time he tried to speak the words were lost. He groaned loudly, a pathetic noise that quickly transformed into loud sputtering as he coughed up the uninvited gulp of ocean he'd swallowed in his fall. He was flailing wildly at this point, insane hand gestures trying to make up for his lack of word use.

"Elizabeth! I kraken swam wench! you stole for so long you're safe! I lost need rum! my compass you're safe my hat _rum_!" Well, at least he could speak again. Unfortunately it was completely unintelligable. The sun and ocean had clearly done more damage than he'd imagined, even when he'd thought himself hearing things and hallucinating. He groaned again, this time thankfully without the coughing fit.

When the heaving started she grew worried; he spat up a good amount of salty water, thankfully not on her, though it wouldn't have mattered much. Her clothes were no longer the expensive delicate creations she'd once worn. She watched him flail about, ducking smartly once or twice to avoid being whacked in the face. Then he found his voice. She felt her heart race forwards as he said her name, but her happiness quickly faded to quiet confusion; he was rambling, completely insane. She sighed loudly, but she couldn't help herself: she grinned, laughing very softly. It was obvious what he needed, and luckily for him she was prepared to provide it. Thanks to Tia, of course, and her own dislike for the beverage. Rum. She lifted the near-full tankard to his lips, careful not to spill; she had a feeling he would need every drop.

Jack drank eagerly from the heavy mug, downing half of the rough, golden liquid in one gulp. Almost instantly he felt it inside him, as if it were coursing through his entire body. He felt his mind relax and his senses sharpen to normalcy, the familiarly comforting buzzing in his head slowly returning. He could breath again. He could _think_ again. Thank god for small favors. He struggled to a sitting position, feeling the rough material of her pants on his cheek as he thrashed around slightly in his effort.

"You killed me," he said, meeting her eyes calmly for the first time since he'd realized that she was in fact _not_ a figment of his imagination. He grinned toothily, leaning back and digging his fingers into the cool sand. He knew it wasn't true. He was clearly alive -to the best of his knowledge, at least- but it sounded dramatic. And Jack Sparrow had a true fondness for the dramatic.

She knew it. She'd just _known_ that a stiff drink would bring Jack back. Or at least calm him down a bit, enough so he could form a coherent sentence.


	3. You Killed Me

**This is the beginning of an epic; third part.**

So short. My apologies. Still own nothing.

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She grimaced inwardly as she heard it. _"You killed me."_ It was painfully true. Stinging pain that she couldn't place; it rang through her entire body. But there was something in his voice, something that told her he wasn't furious with her, as she'd assumed he would be. Something almost playful. Sarcastic and playful. Something very _Jack_. She felt the pain edge away as his eyes met hers. They were sparkling. She felt herself swoon. But only slightly; he was right in front of her, after all. Jack, the man she wasn't supposed to love. _Oh_, but she did. 

_Oh_, but she shouldn't.

"You look quite alive to me," she quipped, her best attempt to cover any detectable emotion. But she couldn't hide that grin.

She could have sat there all night, swimming in his hazel eyes. But that wasn't possible. Not with an entire house-full of depressed and nearly-drunken pirates who were sure to be wondering where she'd disappeared to. She stood, kicking her legs absentmindedly to rid them of clinging sand, and offered her hand to the Captain. Her Captain. He wrapped his grimy fingers around her palm, pulling hard on her arm as he heaved himself to his feet.

"You killed me," he stated, quite factually. Quite happilly. What could he say? He was back. With Elizabeth. He was alive, and so was she. He was so happy he couldn't even be bothered to care that she was still betrothed, still in love with William.

She felt a laugh bubble in her chest. He was insane. Insane and gorgeous and ... _wrong, Elizabeth. _Wrong. The voice in her mind, the shrill and painfully jabbing moral voice, protested. Again. She shook her head, two tiny motions left and right. Why was it so hard for her? Why was it so _bloody_ difficult to admit that she was in love. With someone who wasn't her fiance. Damn principles. Damn bloody upstanding lady-of-court principles nearly everyone in her life had been boring into her head since she was barely able to walk. Hell.

She didn't say another word as she led him towards the woods, towards the short and overgrown path to the river. She was too afraid to speak, not sure what could snake it's way between her lips. Not with her head in such a conflict with her heart. Not with that terrible nagging voice locked in battle with her desire. Her very _heavy_ desire. Her very heavy conscience.

But Jack was perfectly happy with the silence; he wasn't a conversationalist by any stretch of the imagination.


	4. Five Of His Crew

**This is the beginning of an epic; fourth part.**

_Still_ own nothing.

Very little romance in this chapter. And by very little, I mean almost none.

Sorry, loves.

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He pushed through the leaves behind her, ducking the larger, twisting branches. The path was quite overgrown. But it didn't surprise him. Tia wasn't exactly the tidy sort of woman. Mosquitos were buzzing incessantly in his ears; he swatted at them, though they came right back. He could feel bugs crawling over the bare, damp skin of his chest. He could hear the strange, jarring calls of exotic birds as they fluttered overhead in an explosion of jewel-bright feathers. He could taste the salt and mud of the far-off river heavy in the thick air. This was a place he knew; this was a place he recognized. This was the first island in a long time he'd been happy to wash up on. 

The dark shape of Tia's multi-tiered river house was soon looming over them, surrounded by the murky, scum-covered swampy water Jack had waded through so many times before.

He glanced quickly at Elizabeth, bending stiffly at the waist and making a sweeping gesture towards the ladder with his arm.

"M'lady," he slurred, winking wryly. He could play the gentleman. Occasionally.

Elizabeth felt a smile creep across her face as Jack bent into a mocking bow and offered her first rights to climb the rotting, moss-covered ladder. She mounted it quickly, dreading the snapping noises she heard. But the ladder, thankfully, remained intact. His boots thudded heavily on the warped wooden boards as he joined Elizabeth on the outer deck. If it could be called a deck. Really, it was an extention of the floorboards inside, enough for a few people to stand on.

She didn't knock. Planting her foot on the hand-carved, oaken door and her hands on either side of the doorframe, she pushed in. Hard. And it yielded the reactions she'd hoped: every head in the room snapped towards her. Every depressed, defeated gaze.

"I found something washed up on the beach," she said, matter-of-factly. That small smile remained fixed on her face as she stepped aside, tucking herself against the wall. And there he was, framed by moonlight, planted firmly in the carved out doorway. He looked a mess; he was soaked to the bone, hatless, and the thick black kohl around his eyes was smudged and running terribly. But he seemed so majestic, so valiant. She felt a shiver shoot down her spine.

The uproar was deafening. Table and chairs were overturned in his crew's scramble to embrace him. Their Captain. She felt the morose mood that had been choking the room lift. Gone, like fog in the sunlight. Sheer shock was an understatement.

There were only five of them left. Five of his crew. Not counting Elizabeth, of course. Or William. Jack counted five. Five. _Gibbs_. He smiled. _Pintel and Ragetti_. He fell into a seat, pulling a tankard of rum towards his chest. _Cotton and Marty_. He cast his eyes in a circle; the crowd of faces were turned towards him, so expectant. And who was he to let them down?

"I suppose you want to know all about Captain Jack Sparrow's heroic defeat of the horrible beastie what took down the Pearl?" Cheers enveloped him, raucous with delight. Pushed him onwards. "But first, _rum._" He took a long drink from the mug, wiping the once-white sleeve of his hopelessly stained shirt across his mouth. The warm, spiced drink filled his throat; the fumes filled his nostrils. Bloody delicious. Chairs screeched and thudded across the floor as his men pulled themselves around him. Around the table. Around the drinks.

"There I was," he began dramatically, his eyes widened for effect. "Alone on the deck of the Pearl, staring the beastie in the face." He gulped down some rum. "Since I was," he paused. "_Magnanimous _enough to elect to stay behind," he cast a quick glance at Elizabeth, smirking only slightly. She was the only one who knew. She and he.

And he wanted to know _her_. Badly. The flickering lamp-light made her eyes sparkle. Beautiful. He swallowed and forced himself to continue.

"It was all up to me." Another swig of rum. "And I knew what I had to do. See I let him swallow me. Whole. And I was in the belly of the beastie. There were all manor of things down there. Met a man named Fredrick. Very fond of rocks. Quite a boring fellow, really. Shot him after the third day. And I waited. Waited until he got hungry again. Knew he was attacking a boat when he started rocking something aweful. Then I got what I'd been waiting for: he swallowed a long ladder. Rope. Clearly something what previously led to a crow's nest." Another swallow of rum. "So I tied it to a rock. There were hundreds. Fredrick, you know. Roped it around his...you know that thing in your throat?" He opened his mouth wide to demonstrate. "And pulled myself up. So there I was, halfway up the ladder, when I saw it. _His thump thump_. I swung back and forth until I was close enough. And I sliced it in half. I climbed out of his mouth just as he started to sink." He paused for dramatic effect. "_To Davy Jones' Locker_." He let his mouth curl upwards in a smug grin and crossed his arms over his chest, silent.

They would never know what had really happened. He certainly wouldn't tell them. They would never know that he had fallen into the water, flailing about so much that his sword had been thrust into the Kraken's chest. Into it's heart. It had been pure luck. But then again, his entire life seemed to be pure luck, to be honest. They would never know. They didn't need to.

Elizabeth kept her lips sealed on the edge of her empty tankard as Jack began the tale of triumph. They were watching him eagerly, hanging on to each and every word.

She listened to his story that was, in all likelihood, being woven as he spoke. Her gasp was heard in the chorus. Her breath was held with the crew. And when he mentioned his _electing _to stay behind she nearly choked. She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to silence herself before anyone could notice. Her eyes met his. They were shining, reminding her. Reminding her that he didn't hate her. That she shouldn't keep hating herself for what she'd done. She swallowed hard.

Before she knew it, he was finished. She was slouched against her high-backed wooden chair at this point. She could feel the oppresive heat of the night pressing down on her; her shoulders slumped forwards slightly, eyelids half-closed. She hadn't noticed until now, in all the excitement of Captain Jack's triumphant return, but she was exhausted.

The noise rose slightly as the chatter began, seven men fighting to be heard over each other. But one look at the crew told her: they were clearly as tired as Elizabeth, run ragged with worry and excitement.

Where were they going to sleep? They had no ship. Nowhere to stay. She pushed her chair back and stood.

"Well, Captain," she spoke softly, taking the few steps towards Jack. She touched his arm lightly, feeling the nerves in her fingers as if they were electrified. "What do you suggest we do now?"

To her surprise, the chatter stopped.

"Aye," Gibbs chimed in, his face slightly red from the alcohol. "The crew is tired, Captain." A chorus of agreement quickly followed. "We figure it's only a matter of convincing _her _to let us stay."

Then it hit him. Jack hadn't seen her. Tia Dalma. And that meant one thing. She was upstairs.

Concocting something vile.


	5. Thieving Fingers

**This is the beginning of an epic; fifth part.**

This is a nice, long chapter.

I bet you thought I forgot about Will and Will & Elizabeth. Nope. Next chapter.

Also, Jack doesn't know that Will saw him kiss Elizabeth. He doesn't know that he's wicked upset. He thinks Will & 'Liz are hunky-dory in loveland. Just to clear that up. Don't want any confusion, y'know.

Keep up the reviews, y'all! Your interest is what keeps me writing. -huggles-

Post Script; forgive any mistakes & typos. I don't have the energy to check it.

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"I'll persuade her," he slurred. 

The stairs creaked horribly when he put his weight on them. But he was sure they wouldn't give out; he had climbed them many times before. Many times before. Before. In the past. There was no railing; the stairs, decaying pieces of what was clearly driftwood, were wrapped around the thick, twisted tree the ancient house was built around. Very unstable. Did Jack care? Of course not. And anyway, the entire house looked like a stiff breeze would shatter it into a million pieces of crumbling, maggoty wood.

He cast his eyes around the room one final time, before the rotting wooden floorboards of the second tier blocked his vision. They fell first on Elizabeth, naturally and quite despite the voice of reason. She had taken his seat; slouched low, eyes half closed. His crew, despite the continuous buzzing of conversation, looked exhausted beyond reason. Like they'd just come off a storm, pulled hard through a breaker.

Then he realized. She wasn't with Will. She was in his seat. At the head of the table. And there was the whelp. In the corner. Brooding? Very interesting.

But he hadn't time to consider it. Before he knew it his feet were firmly planted on the upper level, the loud thud of his heavy boots echoing off the carved-out walls. Only a few cast bleary eyes towards their Captain as he drunkenly mounted the stairs and disappeared to the place they themselves had dared not go. William Turner was not one of them.

Indeed, she was there. Bent over a thick volume; back turned to the mouth of the stairs. She'd had her fill of sadness and blind despair; she knew that, when grieving, the best thing to do was keep yourself busy. And that was easy. For her.

Yes, she'd heard the commotion downstairs. She knew he was back. Of course, she knew he was back far before. Far before even Elizabeth. She knew things. That was the truth. And she knew he would wind his way upstairs to find her. Eventually.

Blackened eyes flew across pages of lore. Fingers moved back and forth, from her lips to the papers. Deep in thought. Hands fluttered over the sea of jewel colored bottles, pouring one after another into a larger chalice. A flash of light. A plume of ruby smoke, followed by an explosion of black sparks. She absentmindedly pinched out a small fire smoldering warmly at the tips of her untamed hair. It would have burned had she not long since lost feeling in her fingers. Numbness. It was a small price to pay for some of her darker accomplishments. Black magic. It often had undesirable effects on the creator.

Her concentration was quickly broken by the sounds of an ascending visitor. Necklaces and bangles of all shapes and sizes clattered together as she turned to face him.

"Well, be still my heart, if it isn't Jack Sparrow." She swayed towards him, closing the distance in a rustle of her tattered skirts. "I told you. Don't you be messin' around with Davy Jones."

"Tia Dalma." He met her eyes, so similar to his own. But where his were surprisingly sharp and clear, hers were red. And murky. Unfathomable. It came from hours spent in near-darkness, pouring over thick volumes of scribbled writings. And from the herb. She was quite fond of it, truth be told. It was ancient; Chinese, or so he'd heard. And she knew the secrets. Knew how to dry, and chop, and cure. It was all in those weathered pages.

She was dressed as always; a long, grimy gown that would have been gorgeous at once point, long ago. It was tight. _Very_ tight. It gave Jack a perfect view of her rather large chest. It turned him on at a feverish level. He moved closer. He could feel her hot breath on his neck. "I'm here to persuade you," he breathed, eyes angled downwards. He wove a set of dirty fingers between her sundry of large, gaudy necklaces. So many sparkling gems. So much _gold_. "Beautiful," he mumbled under his breath, eyes fixed on a particularly large sapphire. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the stone as if it contained a hidden secret.

Their affairs of the past were certainly something to remember. Legendary. And Tia Dalma wasn't like the others. The tavern wenches. The other men's wives. The virgins. The nymphomaniacs. The ladies of court. The destitutes. The delinquents. She wasn't like any of them. She didn't give a damn. She didn't care. She didn't care if Jack came or went. If he was on fire with passion or cold as ice. She didn't _care_. And that made her so different.

She remembered him coming close. She remembered him swaying against her. She remembered his no-regrets smile. She remembered listening to him plead his case. Time after time. Shag after shag.

Watching him weave his thieving fingers through her precious jewelry, she caught his hand, bringing it up to eye level with a smirk.

"Don't you be tanglin' your fingers in things I don't give you permission to touch, Jack Sparrow." She cackled and swept away, turning her back. "What can Tia do for you?" Her hands wandered back to the phials crowding the scarred table, though she wasn't paying attention to the concoction at this point. She was waiting. Waiting to hear what he wanted this time.

He stepped behind her, looming over her much smaller frame. He had a terrific view of her assets from his position. He felt a tingling through his body he recognized immediately. Animal desire. He came up close. Until he was pressed against her from behind. He lowered his lips to her ear, so close that they just barely brushed against it as he spoke.

"Letmycrewspendthenight?" He spoke so fast his words ran together, one long question. He teased the large rubies dangling from her ear with his dirty fingers, seriously considering easing them out of the hole and pocketing them.

Tia was no fool. Like a loyal dog, Jack would follow. She knew well that she was the perfect release for him. The perfect release for guilt-free Jack Sparrow. She could feel him breathing behind her. Heat on her neck. His lips were wavering dangerously close to her ear. Her hand darted out, seizing his. She turned around, fingers wrapped around his wrist, vice-like.

"I'm telling you, Jack. Don't you be eyein' my jewels." Her nose wrinkled in thought as she slowly released him from her grip. A quirky smile spread across her ink-smeared lips. "You all are most welcome to use my home for a night." She nodded one more time and pressed the palm of her hand against his cheek. And turned back to her book.

Jack was fighting with himself. Hard. He wanted to shag. Needed to shag. And there was Tia. Right bloody in front of him. She was his ticket to a guilt-free release of his lust. True, Tia Dalma was all kinds of bewitching. But his thirst was for Elizabeth Swann.

And what else could he do? She wasn't exactly available. She wasn't at his fingertips. Like Tia was. She could give him something he surely couldn't get from the woman he loved. Not with the whelp around, at the very least. He groaned softly, torn between throwing himself at her and bloody leaving.

Then he did it.

He couldn't contain himself; his desire was too great. It was something he'd been deprived of for a long time, and he bloody needed it. He grabbed her arms from behind, spinning her around to face him.

"What say you to rekindling the flame? I've been at sea a _long_ time." He grinned devilishly, drawing his finger across her collarbone. It bothered him, a stinging pain in his chest, that the woman in front of him wasn't the one he loved. Wasn't Elizabeth. But he needed a shag. Badly. And Elizabeth was taken.

She smirked as his desire peaked and lofted a brow. Tia could sense the desperation in Jack from the minute he stepped over her threshold. She had known. He smelled so thickly of lust it choked her nostrils. But she hadn't said a word.

She was seized from behind. Dark eyes glanced downward to see those familiar, filthy hands. She let him spin her around; she listened to the confession of his need for flesh. Her skin felt white-hot under his fingers. The temptation was most certainly there. But his eyes were confusing. There was something there. Something told her that it wasn't right. That _she_ wasn't right.

She ignored it. He didn't know what he wanted. That was true. His compass wasn't working, after all. But she couldn't read minds. She knew things, yes. But she didn't know what he really wanted. And until she did...

She pressed her lips to his. Quickly.

"Welcome back, Captain Jack." Her hand wrapped around the worn leather of his belt; his assortment of personal effects clamored with the disturbance.

Jack a surge of heat through his body as her lips met his. He let her hands explore his belt. He draped his arms loosely over his shoulders. He felt it unhook and fall to the ground with a loud thud; his sword and pistol were quite heavy. He brought his lips against hers. Fierce with lust.

There were too many thoughts racing through his mind; he could barely process them. Passion. Pleasure. _It felt so good_. Guilt? Regret? _No, no. Don't think about that, fool. Don't think about her. Don't think about her_.

"I lost my hat," he mumbled into her neck. He hadn't meant to say it. But it had been the first thing his mind managed to wrap itself around.

Her lips slowly explored inch after inch of still damp flesh around his jaw. She laughing in his ear as the belt slipped to the ground. His spice-and-rum taste was so familiar. Her arms folded around his neck. Her fingers tugged at his matted hair, ushering him blindly backwards to her bedside.

Modest was an understatement. It was, in effect, a creaking wooden frame. Half-decayed, like everything else in the river house. Her blankets were quilted; pieces of fabric that had no earthly business being so were sewn tightly together. Silk and leather. Satin and burlap. Hands tugged him down into her bed.

He let her pull him onto it. Onto _her_. She was as beautiful as ever; just as he'd left her. Her tanned skin was a perfect match for his own sun-damaged color. Her tattered gown slipped down one dark shoulder. And he saw it. A scar. He traced the thin, white line with a blackened fingertip.

"Remember?" He could. Quite well. He pressed down on her, his tongue exploring her mouth. She tasted of the herb. He loved that taste.

And his chest was still stinging. He ignored it.

Her arms wrapped around him slowly; her fingers ran over his tangled mane. She preened him as if he were a cat. She nodded, her eyes locked on his. She remembered. Her hands clawed up his chest. Her lips pressed harder against his. His hands twisted in her hair. She arched her back. She cackled.

He was just considering how best to shed his clothing when he heard the stairs creaking. They fell silent.

Elizabeth was growing tired with each passing moment. Half the crew was already asleep, heads on comrade's shoulders. He was supposed to be asking whether or not they could stay. And his coming back was not fast enough for any of their liking. She shook her head. She was creaking up the last few steps when she began scolding.

"Jack you have an entire crew down here ready to completely..." She couldn't finish her sentence. Her hands gripped the door-frame so tight her knuckles turned white. She felt a sharp pang in her chest. Her heart was suddenly racing.

Jack Sparrow. On top of Tia Dalma.


	6. One More Casualty

**This is the beginning of an epic; sixth part.**

Okay. I drank a lot of rum before I wrote this chapter. Seriously.

So I lied; there isn't any Will. Next chapter. Cross my heart, loves.

Elizabeth is so angsty. And I'm tired.

And I loffs da reviews!

* * *

She felt sick to her stomach. _Very_ sick. Jack Sparrow. On top of Tia Dalma. Her hands clentched into fists; her nails were digging into her palms. She felt dizzy. She knew she was staring. Jack Sparrow. _On top of Tia Dalma._ She felt blood rush to her cheeks; she knew her face was surely crimson. She knew her mouth was open. Like a hideous fish. Like a hideous, heart-broken fish. 

_No._ Her mind was screaming so loud she could barely stand it. _No. Not heartbroken. _She couldn't breath. She averted her eyes. She let her fingers unfurl; there were deep marks in the soft flesh of her palm. _Not heartbroken. _The room was spinning. _You can't have your heart broken by someone you don't love._ Her knees were weak; threatening to give out. _You don't love him_. Her heart was going to rip her chest apart. _You love Will._ She was going to faint.

She couldn't take it anymore. She ran.

Elizabeth Swann was sobbing. She couldn't remember ever crying this hard. Not in her entire life. She was drawing shallow, gulping breaths. Between piercing howls. It was hurting her ears. But she couldn't stop. Her head was pounding. But she _couldn't_ stop.

Why? _Why_ had she even imagined it? Even for one second; even for one sweet second. Why had she let herself fall in love with a bloody pirate? Yes, she loved him. She _loved_ him. She loved the way he walked; permanently rum-addled. She loved the way his words ran together inhis familiarslur. She loved the dirt under his fingernails and the grease on his hands. She loved his tangled mane; she loved the beads and the jewels and the gold. She loved his spice-and-rum scent. She loved the darkness in his eyes.

And she should have listened to her conscience. She should have listened to her head. She should have listened to that voice; that voice had been buzzing in her mind, screaming at her since the first time her heart had fluttered at his touch. She should have shut him out of her heart.

Had she really expected him to feel the same way? Had she really expected _Captain_ Jack Sparrow to love her? She felt a scornful laugh scorch her throat. What had she been thinking? What, exactly, had she been hoping for?

Love? She didn't think he was capable. She certainly had seen enough of the wreckage he'd left behind. Ladies left and right were itching to introduce him to the palms of their hands. Jack Sparrow was guilt free. He was impulse driven. He was hard-bitten. He left a trail of broken hearts behind him, wherever he went.

And she was just one more. One more casualty, shattered and bleeding. Left along the way.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. Trembling. She felt her knees give out; her back slid down the rough, splintered shingles of the river-house's mossy exterior. She brought her knees to her chest. She rested her cheek on the rough, biting material of her crude pants. She cried in silence.

This was so wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was just so bloody _wrong._

But it didn't have to be that way.

What was wrong with her? She was engaged. To a man who _loved_ her. A kind, sweet man. A trustworthy man. William Turner loved her. And she loved him.

Right?

She felt a sharp stinging in her chest. As if a blade was drawn across it. She winced.

_Wrong._

Then it spoke again. The voice in her head. _You love him._ She felt herself relax. _You've loved him since the day you fished him out of the water. You saved his life. And he saved yours. You _love_ him._ It sounded so true. So real.

Almost convincing.

But Will loved her with all his heart. And Jack didn't.

She jerked her head up so fast it hurt her neck. Will was in there. Thinking horrible things, surely. She knew he'd seen. From every angry stare. Every sad glance in her direction. Every refusal to meet her eyes. She'd known since she'd thrown herself into the longboat. Since she'd lied. Since she'd betrayed the man she loved.

_No. Not the man you love._ She bit down hard on her knee; the material tasted of salt and smoke. And rum. _You love William Turner._

It was a lie. Her heart was broken. That was undeniable. Jack Sparrow had broken her heart.

But it wasn't the end. _And it didn't have to be that way._

William was in there.

_William was in there._

There was only one thing left to do. Only one thing left that could give her a chance at happiness. _Might_ give her a chance at happiness.

She couldn't be with the one she loved. But she could be with the one who loved her.

She had to fix the damage she'd done.


	7. It Had To Be Lies

**This is the beginning of an epic; seventh part.**

Meh. Lots o' Will in this chapter. I don't like writing him much. Jack is much more better.

Sorry to keep you waiting, loffs!

But I love your reviews; keep 'em up! They keep me goin'.

Still own nothing.

* * *

_Who will love a little Sparrow?  
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?_

_"Not I," said the Swan,  
"The entire idea is utterly absurd,  
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the  
other Swans heard."_

**-Simon and Garfunkel**

* * *

She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted it to be dramatic, so dramatic. 

To distract herself; to forget. To forget the searing pain across her chest. To forget that she was in love with a man who could never love her. To forget that she was to spend the rest of her life with a man who she could never love. Not anymore. Not with the Captain burned into her heart.

She wanted to run into his arms. Sobbing apologies. Pledging love. But she couldn't.

Through the grimy window she could see him in the corner, slumped against the wall. Half-asleep in the high-back chair. Just where she'd left him. Not very surprising; the entire crew was where she'd left them. All asleep. Except for Will.

She felt his eyes on her as she silently slipped into the chalet. As she wound her way towards him, dodging the snoring piles of pirates. As she stood before him, unable to speak.

She stared hard at the bowed floor boards. She couldn't meet his gaze. Not yet. His miserable stare was boring into her, burning through her skin. Burning through her bone. And she still couldn't look him in the eyes.

This was unbelievable. This was _unbelievable._ Why was it so bloody hard? Why couldn't she explain it? Explain herself. Explain why. Why she'd betrayed him. Why she'd kissed the Captain. Why she'd brought her entire world crumbling down around her.

She wished she could tell him the truth. That she was in love. And not with him.

With Captain Jack Sparrow. That she was in _love_ with Jack. That her heart ached at the thought of him. That she burned with desire for him. That she was drenched in sorrow. Sorrow from knowing that he would never feel the same way. Sorrow that made her want to fall to her knees and cry until there was nothing left.

But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't, because it would make things worse. So much worse. It had to be lies. More lies.

"I'm sorry," she whispered; it was all she could manage.

And it was true. She _was_ sorry. Sorry that she'd ever let Jack Sparrow into her heart. Sorry she'd ever tangled herself in his web of ruthless treachery. Sorry that she'd kissed him. Sorry that he'd broken her heart, without ever even knowing how she felt.

She was sorry that she'd thrown everything she'd had, everything she'd been comfortable with, away. For one kiss. A kiss that had so obviously meant nothing to the one she loved. For one heartbreak. She lifted her gaze after a long moment of silence. He wasn't speaking. She flinched as she met his eyes. They were so sad. So utterly morose. So jaded.

"Why?" He was hissing, his voice dripping with vemon. But tinged with pain. She felt her cheeks flush. He'd never spoken to her like that before; it stung as if he'd slapped her. She took a step towards him, drawing a deep, steadying breath. She felt like melting under his hard gaze.

Her heartbeat was picking up. Her vision was blurring with tears. She didn't want to say it; she didn't want to lie to him. Again. But what choice did she have?

"Because I love you, Will." It sounded so fake. So unreal. Like a bad dream. She prayed that he would hear only truth.

"Do you?" William Turner was sure anymore. He wasn't sure of _anything_ anymore. He'd felt the confusion eating away at him since the Pearl had disappeared into the olive depths. Since Elizabeth had betrayed him; betrayed his love. Since she'd kissed Jack Sparrow.

No, before that. Since the first time he'd seen her look at him _that_ way. The way she used to look at him. He loved her. For _years_, he'd loved her. And she had loved him, once. He had been dangerous. Risky. An affaire with freedom; so far from what was expected of her. And they had almost been married; had almost been happy. Then everything had come crashing down. She'd betrayed him. She'd kissed that bloody bastard.

He had to admit. He'd felt it coming. He'd felt her pulling away. He'd seen her smile at him. He'd seen the familiar look in her eyes when she _thought _of him. And it had tugged mercilessly at his heartstrings, but he'd ignored it. He'd bloody _ignored_ it. And he regretted his weakness.

He hated Jack Sparrow. Bloody lying, cheating rat. He hated him for what Elizabeth had done.

William had been happy to see him alive, yes. But for a reason far different from those of his crew. For Elizabeth. As violently as the confusion and despair had plagued him, _burned_ him, it was her misery that hurt him most. Seeing her heart torn into pieces nearly killed him.

He couldn't believe it, but seeing her happy was still important to him. Even after what she'd done. He still loved her. But he wasn't sure what she wanted anymore. She'd loved him. She'd kissed Jack. She loved Jack? He didn't know. He had his suspicions. But he still had his hopes.

Elizabeth gulped. _Do I?_ Of course not. She didn't love him. And she never would again. But she had to try. She had to bloody _try_. What the hell else was she supposed to do?

"Yes." She was trembling; her voice so low it could barely be heard. "Will, I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry." She had to press the back of her hand across her lips, to stop herself from repeating those words over and over. There was nothing else to say. Nothing else she could _think_ to say.

He wanted to take her into his arms. He wanted to hold her against him. To tell her everything was alright. But he could see it in her eyes. Doubt. No, not doubt. He felt a twinge of sorrow shoot through him. Not doubt at all. Deception. But did he care? Did he care that she was clearly lying? That she didn't love him?

Did he _care?_ He loved her, and here she was. Asking forgiveness. Swearing love.

He stood suddenly, never taking his eyes from hers. They were so close; he could see the tears shining on her cheeks. It was all so familiar; something that never failed to excite him. To give him a rush of ecstacy. Being near her. Being so _near_ her.

He didn't care.

He kissed her. Gently. Softly.

He _didn't_ care.


	8. So Wrong

**This is the beginning of an epic; eighth part.**

No rum tonight, but I drank iced coffee all day; it was a hundred freaking degrees out. Does the hyper show in the writing? That's the real question...

Still own nothing. -huggles Jack- But he can come with me, if he wants.

* * *

Captain Jack will get you high tonight  
And take you to your special island  
Captain Jack will get you by tonight  
Just a little push, and you'll be smilin' 

**- Billy Joel**

* * *

Elizabeth could remember their first kiss. _So_ well. She could remember the way the warm air she felt on her skin; the way the sun was pooling around them, as if they were the only things on earth, warming and golden-bright. She could remember the way he smelled: like fire and brimstone. Like the ocean. Like a man. The first man she'd ever been so close to. The first man she'd ever tasted. She could remember how it felt to have her body against his; how they fit together so perfectly, so unbelievably perfectly. How she thought they would be together always. How she thought she loved him. Always and forever. 

But she'd been wrong. So wrong.

She let him kiss her in the yellow light of Tia's house. Gone were the sparks, the incredible explosion of excitement. Gone was the warm tingling through her entire body; gone were the thrills of pleasure. All of them, gone. His lips felt cold and dead against hers; his skin stoney, his touch limp. Nothing felt right about it anymore. _Nothing_.

The voice was gone. The bloody voice, the moralistic screaming voice inside her head, was _gone_. And she almost wished it wasn't. She almost wished it was still there, still screaming, still forcing itself upon her. Still burning the belief into her mind; the belief that she loved Will. As much as she'd tried to push it away, as much as she'd known it was a horrible lie, it was the only thing she'd had. The only thing that would have made what she was doing seem right. Seem sane. But it was gone. Disappeared, with the romance. Everything that had once been so beautiful about him, about _them_, seemed awkward. Awkward and unsettled.

William wanted to turn back time. He wanted to go back, back when he and Elizabeth were wrapped in the comfortable blanket of peaceful bliss that only lovers knew. When she loved him. When she was going to marry him. When they had their entire future of blessed togetherness in front of them. But he couldn't.

He felt her give in to his kiss; but there was nothing there. No return. It was only half of what it used to be. He and her diminished to simply him. Two sweet lovers reduced to one, desperate for a love no longer returned. But he didn't care anymore. He didn't bloody _care_. He had her, didn't he? Why should it matter _why_ he had her, if she was in his arms? Why should it matter that her heart was so clearly in the fist of another? It shouldn't, that was damn sure. He had what he wanted. He had Elizabeth. He wasn't sure why, but he did.

Jack Sparrow knew she'd seen. He knew she'd bloody seen him with Tia. On top of Tia. His heart had plummeted into the depths of his gut when he'd heard her voice. Anyone else he would have ignored. Would have continued with the fulfillment of his desire. But it was bloody Elizabeth. He'd seen her in the doorway; he'd seen the blush creeping over her cheeks, the pained expression on her face as she averted her eyes. He'd seen her turn and run, and he'd felt something tug violently on his heart. It was so wrong, so _wrong. _It should have been her beneath him. Or above him. Or beside him; it didn't bloody matter. She was the woman he loved. But she was so hopelessly _engaged_. So hopelessly in love with that whelp.

He felt something click into place deep inside him. Something that felt bloody aweful; dirty and guilty and so very sorry. Something he'd never experienced before. Something he didn't entirely despise, despite the terrible feeling it shot through his body. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make love to Tia Dalma. Not now. Not anymore.

He grunted as he lifted himself up. Off. He heaved himself off the bed and bent, snagging the thick leather belt with his fingertips and pulling it into place with a smooth, practiced motion. Then he saw her face. Tia's face. She knew. _Well of course she knew. She was a bloody witch lady._ He grimaced, wrapping a oil-stained hand around the bedpost. She was Tia Dalma, just like he was Captain Jack Sparrow. _No. Jack, you fool. She knows because you just rolled off her. _Oh, yeah.

"Nothing personal, m'lady." He grinned, fingering the golden filigree on his pistol.

Tia Dalma knew she'd seen something in his eyes. She _knew_ it. And she'd been right. Of course and as usual. What surprised her was not the _what_, but the _who_. Jack Sparrow, in love with Elizabeth Swann? Suddenly she could see it; his entire heart opened up before her eyes. And aye, true it was. The idea still seemed absurd. She knew how many woman he'd loved and left. No, not loved. Shagged.

But it was definitely there. His love was _definitely _there. She chuckled softly to herself.

"Jack Sparrow _does_ know what he wants," she spoke softly through her gentle laughter. "You love her."

Jack blinked. He locked eyes with her, staring deep into the darkness he knew so well.

"Not true," he lied. Badly. All he could think of was Elizabeth. Elizabeth downstairs. Elizabeth with William. Elizabeth's kiss. Elizabeth's shocked expression. Elizabeth _bloody_ Swann. Soon-to-be Elizabeth Turner. He folded his arms across his chest, pouting heavily.

"Jack Sparrow, your heart is singin' for that girl." She pointed a crooked finger at the empty doorway.

"I need rum."

"You need to _talk_ to her. You need to tell her."

"And what, exactly, would that achieve? The man she's engaged to, the man she _loves_, is _right down those stairs,_" he hissed through clenched teeth. But he knew she was right. Unfortunately.

They must not have heard him as he creaked down the stairs. They must not have, because when he found them they were locked in a tender embrace.


	9. It Cleared His Mind

**This is the beginning of an epic; ninth part.**

Short. Sorry. Still love you all, and your fantastic reviews. Still own nothing.

Bonsoir!

* * *

And he was going to tell her, too. 

He _was_. Until he saw them. Together. He winced slightly and took a silent step backwards; he folded himself into the shadows of the corner, under the first twist of the staircase. His head was throbbing painfully, like all the blood in his body was pooled there; it was as if he'd been hanging upside-down for far too long. And his heart. Again. It hurt like all hell, pounding and stinging at a near-unbearable level. Bugger all. He and her. Will and Elizabeth. They just bloody _fit_ together. William Turner matched her. So much better than he ever could. He drew a shaking breath and leaned backwards; he let his head thud against the wall. And repeated the motion. Over and over, a rhythmic thumping against the ancient timbers. For some reason he couldn't explain it helped his headache. And it cleared his mind.

He knew he'd been wrong to think that anything would work between them. Seeing her like that, melting against William, had allowed him to mark the truth in it. And the truth was that he was _insane_ to even imagine Elizabeth leaving her precious Will for the likes of him. Him, a dirty pirate. A renegade. William was a steady, a comfortable _always_. And as sure as Jack was that she would sail in his heart forever, -longer, he could swear-, Elizabeth would never see him as more than a lying, cheating, rat. A lowlife. A terrible man.

He felt tired, so very tired; but he couldn't move. He couldn't stop the rhythmic thumping. He couldn't close his eyes. All he could do was stand in the darkness, staring at nothing. Absolutely nothing. Alone with his thoughts. His miserable, defeated thoughts.

Bloody hell, he had been so close. So close to telling her. So goddamn close. He couldn't believe he'd almost done it. He couldn't _believe_ he'd almost sliced open his heart for the girl. The girl who was so in love with William Turner. The girl who had kissed him and clearly felt nothing. The girl who'd kissed him to _kill_ him, to save her love and her skin, and nothing more. He felt a cold shiver shake his entire body. It would have been horrible, if he'd done it. Messy and _horrible._ In a way he was grateful that he'd seen them like that: tangled up in each other. Happy. So happily together. His mind was grateful. His mind, his voice of reason, was grateful. But his heart was aching. _Better get used to it. It's going to hurt for a long time. Probably the rest of your life, and then some._ He let out a shuddering breath. _Drink some rum_.

He wanted to; maybe it would dull the pain. Maybe, if he was lucky, it would make it disappear. He certainly didn't have any issues with drinking until his death. Until the sea finally claimed him. He wanted to, but he still couldn't move. _Hell_. He let his eyes shift to the side. There is was: a squat bottle of crystal clear rum. Cuban, perhaps. He wasn't too fond of Spanish rum; the taste was far too dull. In Jack Sparrow's opinion, English rum was the only kind worth drinking. Spanish was too dull and French was far too sweet. English rum was deliciously full of flavor. Robust. And oh, how he wanted a _drink_. Any drink, even that tasteless Spanish bilge-water. He returned his gaze to the straight-ahead darkness. _He wanted to; but he couldn't move_.

Until he heard her voice.

"Jack Sparrow," she spoke quietly, laughing slightly. "Is there any particular reason why you're hiding in the corner?"


	10. Then He Saw It

**This is the beginning of an epic; tenth part.**

So! Jack & Elizabeth have stopped being _stoopid_. For now, at least.

I'd like to continue this, but I need some ideas for where to take it next. If y'all have any inspiration, tell it! Thanks, babes.

* * *

His blackened eyes widened in surprise. _Caught_. He'd been caught. He let his chin sink back against his neck as he turned his head until his eyes found her. Elizabeth. Standing in the line between lamplight and shadows, the soft golden glow pooling around her. He gulped. 

"Not hiding, love," he slurred, peeling himself off the wall. He could move now, at least. He could hear the the stairs creaking above him as he placed a shaking hand on the age-old tree trunk they wound around. To hide the trembles that were worrying his nerves.

He was _shaking? _

He sighed, letting his breath slide out with a groan on his lips. He dropped his jaw and curled his tongue towards the back of his throat, thinking. About her. About how beautiful she looked in the permanant gold-bright light of Tia's river house. About how perfect she'd looked wrapped in William's arms. About how his heart was racing, about how tremors were wracking his body at the mere closeness of her. That was a new sensation; an _entirely_ new sensation. For a _woman _to pull from him, at least. Oh, he'd felt it before; he knew it well, in fact. The shaking that felt like his bones were rattling together beneath his skin, like nothing in him was fixed in place. He'd felt it the first time he'd sailed towards that endless horizon, the first time he'd taken the helm, the first time he'd felt a ship gliding under his slightest touch. It was excitement. It was heaven. It was love. "Thinking."

Elizabeth smiled as she furrowed her brow. "Thinking?" She absentmindedly reached towards the tree; her palm came to rest just above Jack's. So close their fingers were touching. She felt herself jump slightly; the contact between bare skin felt white-hot. She thought about pulling her arm back. She _wanted_ to pull her arm back. Or, her _mind _wanted her too. The part of her mind that knew William was just upstairs, seeing to his desire for a certain draft. He'd mumbled something about needing a tonic for head pains after what had seemed like an _eternity _of vapid, unwelcome kissing. And she hadn't complained. But she _had_ noticed something odd as her eyes followed Will towards the twisted staircase: Jack Sparrow, barely visible, tucked into the shadows beneath them. "And would you care to explain why you were attacking the wall with your head? I can assure you, it can't possibly have done anything to wrong you; I was here the whole time. I would have seen the scoundrel if he'd tried anything funny."

He couldn't help but grin. She was sarcastic. She was witty. She was shooting thrills through his entire body. He forced himself to swallow again, though it felt like there was a lump in his throat the size of a coconut.

"Helps me think."

"And what, exactly, has Jack Sparrow so vexed that he feels it necessary to beat innocent walls into submission?"

He answered before he could hold it back. He answered before he could even consider the consequences. He answered so quickly, so foolishly, he surprised even himself.

"You."

Her lips parted in surprise. She felt her heart surge. _Her?_ There were a thousand feathery wings fluttering in her stomach. Without thinking she shifted her hand so it was on top of his. Touching his. She shivered.

"What about me, Jack?" Her eyes were watering as she nearly choked on her words, but she managed to force them out.

He wanted to take it back. He wanted to pretend it had never happened. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He took a long, shallow breath; he was shaking more now. His upper lip was trembling. His scalp was tingling. His knees were threatening to buckle beneath him. And Elizabeth was touching him His hand felt like it was on fire.She was _touching him_.

He grinned. His kohl-smudged eyes were half closed as he leered, swaying towards her.

"You seemed upset," he breathed, his face bowing dangerously close to hers. It was a bad cover, but the only one he could think of. "Upstairs. Earlier. You seemed upset." He felt himself coming dangerously close to another insane rant, so he shut his mouth quickly. He wasn't looking at her. He couldn't. If he did, he wasn't sure _what _insane things his heart would make him do.

She felt cold. Cold and sad at his words. He'd meant nothing. Nothing like she'd thought he might. _Hoped_ he might. She kicked herself mentally for letting her heart fluster her. _Again_. She pulled her arm back, cradling her wrist in the opposite hand.

"What you do in private is no business of mine," she mumbled quietly, eyes cast downwards.

Jack was about to push past her, about to snatch the squat bottle from the table and down it, about to sew his heart shut one last time. But then he saw it. Something he hadn't seen before. _Ever_. Not in Elizabeth Swann. Not in the beautiful Swann. And as much as others denied it, he _did_ have an intuitive sense of the female creature. When he wanted to. He could see it in the way she stood. In the way her chin was trembling so slightly. In the way she was wringing her wrist with her long, pale fingers. In the way she wasn't looking at him.

She was disappointed. She was _disappointed_ that he'd mentioned what she'd seen. No, no. Not that he'd mentioned it. That he _hadn't_ continued. That he hadn't said something else, something _not_ about what she'd seen. Something totally different. And then it clicked. Then it all made sense, at least in his head. He knew what to do. He knew _exactly_ what to do.

"Tia Dalma and I go way back. Thick as thieves, y'know. She gives me what I want, love." He extended a wirey, dirt-covered finger and placed it under her chin, easing her head upwards so he could look her in the eyes. He smiled wide, gold teeth flashing in the flickering light. "But not what I need. Savvy?"

Elizabeth felt all the air rush out of her when he lifted her chin. When her eyes met his she could barely breath. She was dizzy again, but it was so warm and comfortable she didn't give it any thought. She wrapped a hand around his forearm, squeezing it gently.

"I don't know what you need, Jack," she breathed. She knew what she wanted him to need. She knew _so well_ what she wanted him to need. She knew from the long hours spent day-dreaming about him. About his voice. About his touch. He was so close. She could feel his hot breath on her face. She could smell his spice-and-rum scent. Their noses were practically touching. She could feel his hips pressed against hers. She felt her mouth fall open, expectant. Wishing.

He had to do it. He couldn't stop himself. He _couldn't_ stop. They were already so close. He could feel her, soft and slender against him. Her warmth was radiating into his body. She smelled sweet. Clean. _How does she bloody do that? She was a pirate now! How did she still bloody manage to smell like a gentlewoman?_

_He couldn't stop._ It came from something deep inside him. Something made of pure desire and lust and _love._ His heart.

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and kissed her. Hard. Fierce. Quick. He forced himself to pull away. His lips were tingling. Fire was dancing through him. His entire body was throbbing with thirst. It was better than rum ever even _thought _of being. He wanted to look into her eyes. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to know if he'd been right, if he'd _done_ right.

But before he could pull back enough to do _any_ of it, to _see_ any of it, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around his neck. Pulled him tightly against her.

And kissed him.

She let him part her lips with his tongue. She tasted him. Rum. It was delicious. Spicy. Exotic. She pushed him backwards until his back met the wall. She pressed hard against him. She tangled her fingers in his wild hair, twisting a string of heavy beads around her fist. His beard felt rough against her skin; his chisled face rubbing against hers. She pressed a knee between his legs, planting a trail of kisses down his neck. The yearning inside her was so intense, so unbelievable, she felt like she was going to explode. She let her lips meet his again. His kisses were messy and rough. So different from the gentle, timid ones she'd shared with Will. And she _loved_ it. She loved the ferocity, the chaos. The recklessness. She was panting. Her vision was bluring.

She was shaking with pleasure as she moaned his name to the warm, Caribbean night.


End file.
